


Silver Platter

by PreposterousGreen



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Affectionate Insults, Anal Sex, Blanket Permission, Bottom Gabriel (Good Omens), Brief Dagon (Good Omens), Clothed/Naked, Come Eating, Come Marking, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Eating, Established Relationship, Food Kink, Frottage, Making an Effort (Good Omens), Masturbation, Nantaimori, Object Insertion, Objectification, Other, Penis In Vagina Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Nudity, Riding, Sex Toys, Sexual Humor, Threats, Top Beelzebub (Good Omens), Use of Royal We, Weird Biology, Ze/Zir Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:20:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24901450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PreposterousGreen/pseuds/PreposterousGreen
Summary: Prince of Gluttony Beelzebub invites Gabriel down to Hell for a special feast. He's not the guest, though: he's the platter.A kink meme self-fill brought to you by the same anon who wrote Pale Tendrils.Warning: contains horrible sexual slang.
Relationships: Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 36





	Silver Platter

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I'm the same anon who wrote Pale Tendrils. I've had quite a few people interested in reading other works of mine and I'm not trying to be coy or anything, I just don't have a namespace presence or other stories. Except now I have another story! Hope you'll enjoy it.

The locker to which Gabriel had been directed to stow his clothing, shoes, and accessories had several issues, not least of which was that it was in a hallway that was apparently very well-trafficked. Apart from that, it was thoroughly rusted-out—he hoped that was rust—and, when he wrenched it open, it made a metallic screech that stopped the several demons within a hundred yards in their tracks.  
  
"Heh," Gabriel said, embarrassed at the weight of the many and multicolored gazes upon him. "Nothing to see here, guys—carry on—as you were."  
  
The inside of the locker was encrusted with pink and green wads of something that stuck to his fingertip and produced a long string of itself when he pulled his hand away. But the other lockers were either padlocked or even more resolutely jammed than this one, so he grit his teeth and began to shrug off his clothing anyway. He got as far as unbuttoning the collar of his dress shirt before his hands came to a halt and, in the full awareness that he was stalling, he read the signs on the walls to each side of the bank of lockers.  
  
One read: OBJECTS IN MIRROR ARE MORE INFECTIOUS THAN THEY APPEAR.  
  
The other, in an eye-searing color scheme whose effect was compounded by bad printing registration, featured over a hundred different warning symbols, each of whose meaning was both more opaque and more concerning than the last. Gabriel fretted idly with a cuff as he tried to decipher the alarming pictograms.  
  
_Get on with it, Gabe_ , he thought to himself.  
  
The passing demons seemed to be ignoring him anyway, so he stripped the rest of his clothing quickly, facing the locker and staring fixedly into its depths as if his not being able to see the demons meant that they couldn't see him. So focused was he on this, and on keeping his poor clothes out of the sticky stuff, that he nearly leapt out of his skin when a red, webbed hand landed on his bare shoulder.  
  
"Jesus H. Christ!" he shouted, flattening himself against the open locker door with a crash.  
  
"What's he got to do with it?" the demon said, bewildered and arguably more startled than Gabriel. "Are all you angels wound this tight? Give me a heart attack, why don't you! Teach _me_ to volunteer for anything down here. Thought it would be fun to gawk a bit..."  
  
Gabriel collected himself. He realized he had put his foot into a sludgy puddle of, well, _something_ and now his sock was wet, which was honestly the worst thing ever. It was so obnoxious that he forgot entirely to be embarrassed about standing naked in a public hallway in Hell.  
  
Useful, that.  
  
The demon in front of him was short, stocky, and very well-dressed for a demon—a charcoal grey gabardine mantle and trousers that were edged in white satin. The critter on her head was a bird with similar coloration, a red beak, and bright white whiskers. Its eyes—and hers—were beady and black. She was also now speaking to him rather than complaining in general.  
  
"Are you even listening to me?" she said sourly, stroking her face. "I _said_ , 'I mustache you a question first.'"  
  
Gabriel attempted to parse this and failed. "Okay," he said, hoping this covered all the bases.  
  
"Do you have any food allergies?"  
  
Gabriel smiled. "Oh, no. I don't eat food," he said helpfully.  
  
The demon—he hadn't caught her name, if she had given it—scoffed. "No, that's not how—well, whatever, it's above _my_ paygrade anyway," she said, marking something on a clipboard. "Come on, we'll know soon enough if you're going to discorporate of anaphylaxis. Chef won't be happy, but zir Lowness will probably love it."  
  
Gabriel didn't understand most of this, but he smiled anyway and trailed after the demon as she headed back to the main kitchen. While the rest of Hell was cold and clammy, excessively air conditioned yet under-dehumidified, the kitchens were hot and clammy, and Gabriel simply didn't understand any of the aromas that filled the place, whether they were good aromas or bad aromas. His demon escort parked him next to a range with several huge, steaming pots of something that was luridly red and flecked with little black bits, and before she could disappear again, he asked, "So, is this what they call 'gore'?"  
  
She looked at him in clear alarm and her headcritter bristled its feathers. "It's _tomato sauce_. What the fuck is your problem anyway? Stay here. And stay out of the way." Then she turned on her heel—a kitten heel, in supple, beautifully-maintained scarlet leather with a black toe—and scurried away, shaking her head.  
  
"Oh, uh, okay," he said, taken aback. He was reasonably certain, however, that there was gore in Hell; perhaps they simply prepared it in a different department.  
  
Down in Hell, Gabriel's control over his corporation was greatly reduced, and so by the time the bird demon returned with several others in tow, he had worked up a sweat just standing next to the steaming vats of sauce. He knew from past experience, however, that Beelzebub would not be offended: to the contrary, ze rather relished his bodily functions in ways that he couldn't fathom.  
  
"This is him, Chef—the platter," the bird demon said to one of the others, a much taller demon whose entire body was plastered over with ragged, faded bits of stickers and fliers and sprinkled with an encrustation of bent and twisted staples.  
  
Gabriel thrust out a hand to introduce himself before he could remember not to. Then he tried to cover the slip by putting the hand in his pocket before he remembered that he couldn't. Flustered, he planted his hand on his bare hip and forged on: "It's a plea—displeasure to meet you. I'm the Archangel Gabriel."  
  
The flier demon gave him a skeptical once-over. "I can see that," she said wryly. "Not exactly subtle, are you? You'll be calling me Chef, then."

"Yes, Chef," Gabriel said, remembering at least that much of the instructions he had been sent. Then he remembered another part and winced. He had been meant to introduce himself as the platter, not as himself. He backtracked hastily. "I'll be zir Lowness's platter for tonight's feast."  
  
Chef, fortunately satisfied with this correction, nodded briskly. "All right, let's get this show on the road," she said. The two unintroduced demons flanking her chorused heartily, "Yes, Chef!" as did the whisker-bird demon.  
  
"Yes, Chef," Gabriel echoed, since it seemed like a safe thing to do.  
  
Gabriel expected to be hustled away to another area of the sprawling kitchen, but it was the kitchens' enormous horde of staff that descended upon him instead. And instead of being scrubbed within an inch of his life, as had happened before, he was merely relieved of his wet socks and chivvied closer to the stove to wait amidst the flurry of activity. A demon, who had a plump grey critter on his head with a flat, rounded tail, came by periodically to gauge how much he was sweating and, apparently, how strongly his armpits smelled.  
  
Meanwhile, other demons hauled in a long, low table with sturdy grab handles on all four sides. While he watched and sweated, they scrubbed this thoroughly, even though it looked clean to his eye. Then they scattered vivid little plant sprigs across it, and Chef, appearing as if summoned, ordered him to lie down on it face up.  
  
"Yes, Chef," he said and complied. The pungent fragrance of the plants—herbs?—made his nose prickle, but he managed not to sneeze.  
  
With brusque efficiency, Chef examined his body. Her stickered hands roved over him, pinching and prodding, using the same amount of force to separate his toes and align his ankles as they did to lift and arrange his penis and scrotum. Despite the heat, he could feel himself coming out in goosebumps all over. And despite the unyielding solidity of the table, he began to feel like he was floating. Then the inspection was over, and Chef was issuing orders to her hovering minions, all of whom gave the same response: "Yes, Chef!"  
  
He shivered with each repetition.  
  
They laid out about two dozen warm, round brown objects on his chest, shoulders, hips, and thighs as well as one apiece in the palms of his upturned hands and one apiece cupped in the orbits of his eyes. Someone went around and drizzled liquid on all but the ones on his eyes, and at this point, his prick began to swell and his heart began to race pointlessly. The whisker-bird demon's voice was in his ear, telling him to remember the phrase, "sourdough-stuffed matsutake mushrooms with pine nuts and ponzu sauce."  
  
In a daze, he recited it aloud twice.  
  
He felt even floatier for a moment before realizing that the table was being lifted under him and moved. The air around his sweat-sheened and sauce-dribbled body changed from too hot to too cold. The mushrooms wobbled on him in time to the demons' footsteps.  
  
"Pon nuts and pinezu sauce," he mumbled thickly. A demon hushed him. He heard doors being opened and closed, felt the table being set down, and heard retreating footsteps and doors again. There was a momentary silence—silent but for the familiar background hum of Beelzebub's cloud of flies—before he remembered what he was supposed to do.  
  
"S-sourdough-stuffed mitsu—uh, matsutake mushrooms with pon—pon—pine nuts and ponzu sauce!" he said, then cringed inwardly at how shaky and hoarse his voice suddenly sounded. He could give hour-long policy addresses to the entire Heavenly Host; surely he could keep it together long enough to announce whatever it was they called the first course in a meal. Horse something.  
  
From somewhere to his side, he heard Beelzebub thrum in quiet amusement.  
  
"You tried, featherhead," ze said in a tone that verged on affectionate. "You tried."  
  
Gabriel, oddly enough, felt calmed by this. He sighed. "Not bad for a first attempt, right?" he said hopefully, then added, "your Lowness."  
  
"No," Beelzebub said languidly. "Not at all."  
  
Gabriel felt a subtle current of air against his side and briefly marveled at how his corporation could compensate for the loss of one sense by the sharpening of the others. One of the objects, the mushrooms, rose away from his taut skin. He could hear Beelzebub chewing.  
  
"Do you know what _umami_ means?" ze asked.  
  
Gabriel had no idea, but he paused to phrase his response in the way he had been instructed. "I don't, your Lowness."  
  
"We don't suppose _savory_ will mean anything to you either," ze said.  
  
"I'm afraid not, your Lowness."  
  
Ze chuckled again and trailed a finger along his torso, tracing a sinuous path between the mushrooms. Then ze took another one, from his hip this time, and ate it. Flies began to land on Gabriel, first one, then two, and then he lost count. They landed and flew away and landed again at will. He couldn't tell if they were landing on the mushrooms too, although he supposed it didn't matter.  
  
Beelzebub began to move around him, displacing the air yet seeming not to make any noise with zir footsteps. Mushrooms disappeared from his body one after another, although not the ones in his hands or the ones covering his eyes. All the while, Beelzebub kept chewing and buzzing and chewing. Finally, ze stopped moving at the far end of the table, and after a moment he felt it jerk slightly across the flagstone floor. Beelzebub had knelt on it.  
  
Gabriel fought the urge to squirm right out of his skin—literally, for if his control over his corporation had been weakened in Hell, it was positively threadbare in the presence of the Prince. Beelzebub was crawling up his body, straddling his legs and letting the hems of zir clothing drag through the sticky sweat and sauce on his skin. Ze plucked up the remaining mushrooms on his thighs as ze went and swallowed each one with a loud gulp that sent a fizzle of heat straight to Gabriel's prick each time. Then ze stooped down and licked all the way up his length from root to tip.  
  
"Delicious," ze growled, then blew air against the trail of zir saliva. "But not exactly subtle."  
  
Gabriel choked down a groan.  
  
Beelzebub plucked up another mushroom and scooted up further, putting zir knees on either side of his waist and sitting back. Most of zir weight was on him now and he could feel the heat rolling off zir body. Some of zir skin felt bare against his—zir lean thighs, for one—but there was also fabric between him and zir in some places. With a thrill, Gabriel realized that the Prince had to be wearing a kilt or skirt of some sort, something he had never seen before. And perhaps _wouldn't_ see; for the mushrooms remained over his eyelids, and ze didn't seem inclined to take them away.  
  
"We will see how unsubtle you can be," ze rasped around a mouthful of food, taking his prick in both hands.  
  
Ze ran its head through the slick between zir labia—ze was so wet, practically dripping with it—and then began to rock zir hips back and forth, sliding the whole length through zir deep crease over and over again.  
  
Beelzebub sucked a breath sharply through zir teeth, and the flies echoed it. "Delicious," ze hissed again in a voice like sun-warmed satin.  
  
The sauce, Gabriel thought. The kitchen demons had drizzled it generously onto his penis, and now it had to be stinging his Prince's flesh. Gabriel couldn't stifle his breathy moan, and he didn't even try when Beelzebub shifted zir grip on his prick and slid zirself down onto it in one drawn-out motion.  
  
"Ah, ah," Gabriel moaned. "Your Lowness...!"  
  
"Is Our pussy tight enough for you?" Beelzebub asked slyly.  
  
Gabriel barely managed not to flinch himself right off the table. "Yes!" he said; the only possible answer.  
  
But ze tightened zirself around him anyway, both by contracting the muscles of zir corporation and by manipulating the very fabric of that corporation with occult power.  
  
"Your Lowness!" Gabriel choked. "Please!"  
  
"Please what, wankwings? Please warmer? Wetter? Tighter?"  
  
He wasn't allowed to say the word no, or the game would end right then, but saying yes would have implied something worse, something that was even less allowed: a demand of his Prince. So he gabbled something incoherent, which also wasn't allowed but certainly more forgivable. In response, Beelzebub constricted around him again and then began to rock up and down, forcing his penis to push in and out of zir too-narrow passage.  
  
Ze hissed again at the sting and stretch of it but began to roll zir hips, taking zir pleasure from Gabriel's body at a steadily increasing pace, until it was jerking under zirs with the force of it. The wheezy little noises that were falling from zir lips were positively entrancing, as were the wet, sloppy sounds zir flesh made against his.  
  
"My Prince," he gasped.  
  
"Featherhead," ze groaned.  
  
Then, letting zir fingertips trail briefly against the palm of his right hand, ze picked up the mushroom that was sitting in it and popped it into zir mouth without losing the rhythm of zir thrusts by so much as a split second.  
  
He choked a bit at this. It felt like _permission_. Probably. Usually Beelzebub, who didn't trust him much with subtlety and wasn't exactly wrong in doing so, gave him a pointed look when ze did something like this. So he lifted the hand from the table, tentatively but not so much so that ze wouldn't see it. Ze grunted zir assent, so he placed the hand on zir rolling, rocking hip. Then he rubbed the pad of his thumb firmly up the jut of hipbone and gripped hard, like he knew ze liked, tugging on the downstroke so that ze landed in his lap with even greater force.  
  
It was Beelzebub's turn to choke and splutter, gulping down the half-chewed mushroom in a hurry as zir orgasm crashed down like a meteor out of a clear blue sky. The spasming of zir leg muscles very nearly tipped zir off of Gabriel, and ze only averted the indignity by seizing his arm. Gabriel let out a bit of a shriek as his prick was wrung hard, _harder_ , inside zir too-tight embrace and as fingernails gouged into his bicep.  
  
His Prince sagged against his chest, panting hard. "N-not bad at all, featherhead," ze said eventually.  
  
They breathed together for a minute or two.  
  
"You're not as useless as you look," Beelzebub said lazily. "Certainly not as useless as you sound. We have decided that you deserve a bit of a reward. We can at least be sure that you will like it, even if you won't appreciate it fully. Yes?"  
  
"My Prince," Gabriel said reflexively.  
  
"You have Our permission to fuck Us."  
  
Gabriel wheezed.

To reinforce the statement, Beelzebub reached down and took the mushroom from Gabriel's left hand and put it in zir mouth, making a point of chewing it slowly and then loudly sucking the tips of zir fingers clean of sauce and oil. Gabriel could feel zir easing off on his prick. He put his hand on zir other hip and stroked it until ze made a pleased rumbling noise deep in zir chest and the flies' hum rose to a matching crescendo.  
  
Beelzebub pushed zirself up into a seated position.  
  
"Make a throne for Us to sit on, won't you?" ze said. "You'll be needing the leverage to do it—to do Us properly, anyway."  
  
Gabriel lifted and bent his legs until Beelzebub was able to lean back against his thighs. The movement had the delightful effect of shifting his prick inside zir cunt in such a way that ze let out a breathy moan, but then his feet started to skid on the sprigs of herbs. He tried to sweep them away without dislodging zir and got a slap on the thigh for his trouble.  
  
"W-would you like it fast or slow, your Lowness?" Gabriel said.  
  
"Slow," ze said consideringly. "Deep. _Powerful_. Fuck Our hole like We fuck yours. Let Us see if those legs are just for show or not."  
  
His mouth went dry at the thought of all the times Beelzebub had fucked him slowly; he swallowed thickly. "I'll do my best, Prince."  
  
"See that you do," ze said, rising up over him so that he had room to move.  
  
Gabriel braced his feet and began to roll his hips upward—a deep, forceful motion as ze had requested, with a snap of his hips at the top. Beelzebub began to moan unabashedly at the second thrust, and shortly Gabriel felt zir fingers as they flickered against zir clit and the place where their bodies met.  
  
"Some—ah—sometimes I think—that your lack of subtlety—is the worst," Beelzebub panted. "In this case—ah, fuck—it's worth putting up with."  
  
"Glad to hear it," Gabriel grunted, trying to sound dry about it and failing altogether. "Do you want me to... Hngh, d'you... your Lowness...!"  
  
"Yesss," ze hissed.  
  
Gabriel blundered around in the pleats of Beelzebub's kilt, falling off his rhythm for a moment until his thumb located its target. Beelzebub let him know, with great enthusiasm, that he had found it, and within seconds he found his rhythm again as well. The hard, steady slap of flesh seemed to echo in the unseen room around them.  
  
Finding it was one thing—keeping the slick bud under his thumb was another thing altogether, until Beelzebub clapped a hand on top of his to keep it steady as his hips pounded relentlessly against zir.  
  
Ze was practically growling zir pleasure now, rough, guttural, rhythmic, and of course accompanied by a deep grinding whine of flies. Gabriel heard such noises from zir lips and flies only occasionally, and to hear them now sent him spiraling dangerously close to his own climax. He couldn't stop, of course; but going on was increasingly risky with each jerk of his strained and burning muscles.  
  
"Your Lowness," he grunted helplessly. "M-may I...?"  
  
"Ah, ah, ah," ze half-moaned, half-chided. "The platter wants permission... to what? Wha—what is it you want from your Prince? For—for We are—in Our munificence—We'll give it to you."  
  
Shocked at how far gone ze sounded, Gabriel expelled all of the air from his chest. Irrelevantly, he wondered why he had inhaled it in the first place. Apart from the herbs (he grudgingly admitted), it didn't even smell very good.  
  
Beelzebub yanked him back to reality with another slap to his corded thigh. "Well? What is it?"  
  
"May I come inside you, your Lowness?" Gabriel rushed the words out.  
  
"But of course," Beelzebub replied easily—relatively easily, given zir exertions—as if he need not have asked to begin with.  
  
And just like that—like hitting a solid brick wall of pleasure—it was done. Ze was spasming around him and he was pulsing in zir and they were both groaning like feral things, with some vicious swearing on the part of the Prince for extra flavor. Gabriel let his feet kick out from under him, and Beelzebub flopped bonelessly against his chest again. Then ze slid zirself down one side of his sweat-drenched chest, wedging zirself under his arm, and they lay together once again, breathing heavily.  
  
"Thank you, my Prince," Gabriel said, beyond winded.  
  
"The pleasure was all Ours," Beelzebub chuckled. "Now wrap your arms around Us properly, for We will get cold quickly otherwise."  
  
Gabriel did as ordered, gladly, but he couldn't turn all the way onto his side for fear of overturning the mushrooms still on his eyes—cooling now and perhaps soggy. He was sure that food got soggy, although less sure what "soggy" meant when it applied to anything other than shoes after an unfortunate encounter with a puddle. But then the Prince reached up, took both mushrooms in one hand, and stuffed them into zir mouth. Gabriel caught the faint flicker of a demonic miracle that made them piping hot again and freshly aromatic.  
  
There was still oil slicked on his eyelids, but he carefully opened his eyes anyway.  
  
The room wasn't one he recognized, but it was decorated in Beelzebub's personal style. It was smaller than he expected—and _cozier_ , although the word sat poorly with his concept of Hell in general and the Prince's preferences in specific.  
  
He looked down at Beelzebub, who continued chewing placidly. The mussed pleats of zir kilt were dampened in patches with sweat and oil and doing more to cover Gabriel's hips than their wearer. Past Beelzebub's head, Gabriel could just barely see zir ass peeking out from under the skewed hem. He considered reaching for it, but before he could work up the courage (the "temerity," ze would say, or perhaps "impertinence"), Beelzebub was picking zirself up off the table, slapping the pleats of zir kilt free of crumbs and wrinkles, and reaching for and ringing a little bell perched on the armrest of zir throne.  
  
"Now," ze said, pleased, "Our insatiable appetite has been whetted. Let's see what Chef has crafted for Us next."  
  
Instantly, demons were swarming into the room, hoisting the table up, and whisking Gabriel out the door.

After the low lighting of Beelzebub's private chamber, the sallow, flickering fluorescent lights in the corridor hurt Gabriel's eyes. So he closed them, only to wonder, as they were setting his table down in the kitchen, just where he had been taken. As soon as the feet of the table hit linoleum, he sensed Chef looming over him, flanked by her two minions.  
  
He cracked open his eyes, then shut them again, briefly and irrationally ashamed of their clinical gaze upon his oil- and fluid-smeared nudity. It _was_ irrational, for he had already been naked for an amount of time that seemed to stretch on into eternity. Yet there were six, seven, eight more courses to go?—he couldn't remember.  
  
"Up and at 'em, tiger," Chef said wryly.  
  
Gabriel swallowed a mouthful of spit and obeyed, clumsily, only remembering to say his "yes, chef" when it was far too late to matter. The whisker-bird demon proceeded to assault him with what looked like a lint brush, which was not the least bit effective in removing the oil, and then two of Chef's minions put him back on the table, seating him upright and prodding his legs into a crossed position.  
  
Had Gabriel any understanding of food, he might have anticipated a soup course, been puzzled by the logistics of it, and therefore relieved by the arrival of a very large bowl. As it was, however, the bowl posed several challenges once it was nestled in his lap. Mainly, it was hot—hot against his thighs and the backs of his heels but most concerningly against his dick. It was also very, very full, and although the minion-demons kept nudging him and making concerned noises, they could not get its bottom to rest stably on the table, which meant that Gabriel had to sit very still to keep the liquid from slopping onto his thighs. And finally, it was steaming directly into his face. This, he thought ruefully, probably counted as a mark in the "Cons" column of his ongoing debate with himself over whether to add glasses to his daily look or not.  
  
The Prince was not to be kept waiting, and as soon as the whisker-bird demon had given him his line ("chicken and wild rice soup with light truffle cream and chives"), the porter demons reappeared to hoist his table into the air. He had to duck his head through several doorways, hunched over the dangerously sloshing soup bowl, and so he didn't get a good look at Beelzebub's dining chamber as he was carried in once again.  
  
With disconcerting timing, he straightened up just in time to look the Prince straight in the eyes as the table was set down before zir. Ze was lounging complacently in an oversized chair with one leg slung over its armrest. And ze was still wearing the kilt, its pleats splayed over zir spread thighs. Beelzebub noticed the track of his gaze, grinned wickedly, and tugged the fabric away until Gabriel could see just the slightest hint of more intimate parts, flushed and swollen.  
  
"Uh, uh, uh," Gabriel said, badly distracted. "Right, uh, 'wild rice and chicken soup with light troubl—truffle cream and—and—and chives'?"  
  
Beelzebub's eyebrows twitched upwards. "Are you saying or asking?"  
  
Gabriel pinched his mouth shut, chagrined.  
  
Beelzebub waved zir lean hand. "Never mind, We are ravenous," ze said. Ze stood, took the matte black bowl that Chef's minion had set by Gabriel's hip, and dipped it into the steaming soup. It was chunky and rich, and the minion had also provided a spoon, but Beelzebub drank it straight from the bowl.  
  
"Oh," ze said, zir glacial eyes fluttering shut in unconcealed pleasure. "We forget sometimes what a genius Chef can be. You would not understand, of course."  
  
"Of course, my Prince," Gabriel said.  
  
Beelzebub refilled the bowl and draped zirself over the chair again to eat. "So," ze said casually, "now that you have had your first taste of what it is like to fuck Our pussy, We assume that you are going to want some more."  
  
Gabriel choked. "Your Lowness," he said, not knowing how else to respond.  
  
"Do you want to spread Our legs and take Us over Our desk with the door wide open?" Beelzebub continued. "Or perhaps over your desk up in Heaven, so that We cannot use Our powers to stop you from doing indecent things to Our short, slight body? What kind of filthy, depraved things do you want to do to Us when you have Us pinned down and squirming like a grub, hmm?"  
  
None of what ze was saying quite made sense—for one thing, that hadn't been Gabriel's first taste of sex with Beelzebub in that particular configuration—and it certainly hadn't been mentioned in the instructions. Gabriel opened and closed his mouth, grasping for some response. What possible answer could he give and still remain within the parameters of the game?  
  
But no reply seemed to be required of him after all. Beelzebub carried on, sipping zir soup and toying with the hem of that infernal kilt, which was now gaping open over one lean hip in such a way that a miracle had to be involved.  
  
"Would you like to defile your Prince with your sticky semen again and again? Pierce Our insides and pump Us full of it until Our belly starts to stretch and bulge? Hmm? Do you want Us to slosh when We pick Ourselves up off the floor—for it to gush out of Us in a torrent? Or do you want to make Us walk out the front door of Heaven with Our stomach swollen with your spend?"  
  
Gabriel swallowed a groan.  
  
Beelzebub smiled savagely. "Oh, he likes that," ze growled. "He likes the idea of having Us when We are weak and helpless. How about when We sleep, then? Will you pull off Our nightshirt so you can grope Our breasts unimpeded, or leave it on as something to grasp Us and tug Us into different positions with? Will you rub yourself on the crotch of Our knickers before you shove them aside to push yourself into Our insensible body? Smirk at Us when We wake sore, sticky, and unaware of having been used over and over again all through the night?"  
  
With a flick of zir wrist, the level of soup dipped in the large bowl and the small bowl filled; that Beelzebub had the wherewithal to keep eating through all this would have astonished Gabriel, had he had the wherewithal to be astonished. Ze drank, eyes not leaving Gabriel's ruddy face. Then ze set the bowl on the table and slouched deeper into the chair.  
  
Gabriel leaned forward over the soup pot, wholly unconscious of doing so, as Beelzebub tugged zir kilt up and away from zir crotch. As his earlier glimpse had promised, zir pussy was still reddened and glistening. Gabriel glanced at his Prince's face and, somewhat to his surprise, found no disapproval there over his having looked, having _stared_ at his Prince's intimate parts.  
  
"Do you like this?" Beelzebub hissed, meeting his gaze. "Do you like seeing what you've done to it?"  
  
Gabriel swallowed, helplessly aroused. "Yes, your Lowness."  
  
"Good," Beelzebub said. "Then you'll like what We are going to do to it now."  
  
Ze slid zir fingers into the gap between zir labia and spread them apart to reveal more pink flesh and an opaque and sticky smear from back to front. Beelzebub slid zir fingers through the smear to collect it, then lifted the hand to zir mouth.  
  
"Briefly, We considered swirling it around in Our soup," ze said lazily, "but even _We_ shudder to think of disrespecting Chef in such a manner."  
  
Then, maintaining unflinching eye contact with Gabriel, ze licked zir fingers clean, returned them to zir clit, and began to stroke zirself in quick, firm circles. Gabriel stifled another moan at the sight, but Beelzebub ignored him and began to talk again.  
  
"Would you like to strip Us naked in front of all Our underlings, as revenge for having had you marched naked through the halls and kitchens?" ze said. "Sit in Our own throne and bounce Us on your cock while all of the Hordes of Hell look on? Make Us come on your length again and again until We scream with it; humiliate and debase Us in front of Dagon and the entire Dark Council?""  
  
Gabriel shook his head helplessly.  
  
Beelzebub's eyebrow rose precipitously. "Oh?" ze said dangerously. "You don't? You don't want to call Us a greedy little slut and spread open Our fucked-out pussy for all the demons of Hell to admire your handiwork? Not interested in stuffing your prick into Our arse and letting them take Our cunt, one after another? You know, demons can be very creative in the article of genitalia. We rather appreciate a nice juicy ovipositor or a glowing shaft of crystal every once in a while."  
  
These last sentences sounded almost plaintive, but Gabriel didn't notice. He hunched over the soup bowl, burying his flaming cheeks in his hands. "Jesus, Beez," he said breathlessly. "How do you come up with this stuff?"  
  
Beelzebub created a third arm for zirself and, for half a second, Gabriel expected zir to penetrate zirself with its fingers. But instead, with no change in zir rhythm, ze reached over and grabbed the soup bowl of all things and took a deep swig of it.  
  
"Too much for you, wankwings?" ze asked, amused. "But We mean it about ovipositors, you know. The crystals We will take or leave—tricky to get a configuration that is pointy in just the right way, though if you do manage it..."  
  
"Noted," Gabriel said blandly.  
  
Beelzebub gave him a ferocious grin and zir stroking intensified. "Noted _what_ , pigeon-shit?"  
  
Gabriel gulped. "Noted, your Lowness," he said, ducking his head.  
  
"Fuck, fuck," Beelzebub groaned extravagantly. All of zir five limbs went whipcord taut and then ze squirmed and writhed in the chair through what looked to be a truly spectacular orgasm.  
  
Gabriel couldn't have torn his eyes away even at his Prince's direct order.  
  
In the wake of zir orgasm, the Prince was, if anything, even hungrier. Much of the rest of the pot of soup disappeared very quickly, and Gabriel had time to catch his breath and even to wonder where ze put it all. But the reprieve eventually came to an end and the Prince set aside zir soup bowl to conjure quite a different object from the aether: a luridly red and very detailed dildo.  
  
Gabriel eyed it warily; for in addition to being, well, _veiny_ , it was intimidatingly large.  
  
"Ooo, you think this is for _you_ , don't you?" Beelzebub crowed. "Oh, featherhead, no. Not for you."  
  
Gabriel concealed his relief. Then he sat up straighter. If it wasn't for him, that meant he was going to get to watch Beelzebub use it on zirself. And it was huge. Far larger than he had ever deemed polite to offer his Prince.  
  
He watched intently as ze attached it to the seat of the chair, considered zir handiwork, then reconfigured the chair altogether.

"Before We begin," Beelzebub said, "We would like you to guess whose this is."  
  
Gabriel looked at the garish red object on the throne.  
  
"Er," he said intelligently. "Yours?"  
  
Beelzebub gave him a pained look. "Satan's sake," ze said. "Were you always this dense, or has regular sex rotted your mind?" Ze tapped the tip of the dildo, making it wobble back and forth grotesquely. "Whose prick is it moulded on?—is what I want you to guess. I'll even give you a hint: as you can see, they're even less subtle than you are."  
  
"Oh." Gabriel thought about it. "Asmodeus?"  
  
Beelzebub snorted. "That wanker? Please! Guess again."  
  
Gabriel leaned over the soup pot again to get a better look. It didn't look like his usual penis, nor anything from Beelzebub's regular rotation. "Da... gon?" he said, and was unsurprised by the rude noise he received in response.  
  
"Dagon has taste," the Prince said perilously. "Last chance, bin-chicken."  
  
Gabriel narrowed his eyes. "What's my punishment if I guess wrong, your Lowness?" he asked.  
  
Beelzebub rolled zir eyes extravagantly. "You'll owe Us a bottle of wine," ze said. "A _decent_ one. Red. If you paid the slightest bit of attention to Hell's social calendar, you'd have been able to answer without even thinking about it."  
  
"Oh," Gabriel said, "Hell's _social calendar_. Of course."  
  
Beelzebub folded zir arms and tapped zir foot theatrically.  
  
Gabriel sighed. "Fine, fine. Is it an Eric's?" Immediately, he had the disturbing thought that it could be an Eric's actual effort, detached and turned into rubber for the occasion. He wouldn't put it past the Prince... or the Erics, for that matter.  
  
Beelzebub and zir flies buzzed like a klaxon. "No, but We can guess exactly what you're thinking," ze said, wagging a finger. "And We must say, that's an awfully twisted idea for an Archangel to be having."  
  
"Yeah, yeah," Gabriel sighed. "Tell me something I don't know. Something to drink now, or for the cellar?"  
  
"A Château Haut-Brion 2016 Pessac-Léognan for the cellar," the Prince responded immediately, "and a Chilean syrah of some sort for drinking right away. We believe Dagon has some sensible ideas in that regard; however, We are willing to trust your judgment with syrahs."  
  
"You said _a_ bottle," Gabriel sniffed, aware that he was pushing his luck.  
  
Beelzebub raised an eyebrow at him. "You'd best mind your tongue or else We shall make it a case each," ze said. "And a paddling."  
  
Gabriel would probably make it a case each anyway, and Dagon would make whip-cracking gestures when he brought it down, but Gabriel was used to that by now and it wasn't like he couldn't afford it. Plus, if he brought a case, he would at least guarantee himself a taste of the stuff before it disappeared into the bottomless pit of Beelzebub's stomach. The paddling, of course, was just a bit of weekend fun. Gabriel sighed again.  
  
"This is neither the first time you've failed Us nor do We expect it will be the last, Gabby," Beelzebub said. "But whatever. We have long since learned not to let your imbecility get in the way of Our fun." Ze slung a leg over the throne—now more of a short, cushioned bench—and sat down behind the toy, scooting up so that it lay against zir crotch and belly. Then ze ran a fingernail down the front of it, trailing an expanding slick of lubricant in its wake.  
  
Gabriel swallowed hard, trying not to wonder how exactly that monster was going to fit inside his svelte and dainty Prince.  
  
Beelzebub stood up on the balls of zir feet and plucked up the front of zir kilt like an apron. Then ze sank down onto the dildo. Gabriel leaned forward again, mesmerized; his lips parted slightly at the obscene noise the bulbous head of the toy made as it pressed Beelzebub's labia apart.  
  
"Good thing Our pussy is already nice and sloppy, don't you think?" ze said wickedly.  
  
"You're welcome," Gabriel said weakly, knowing he would be made to regret it later but unable to stop himself. "So, uh..."  
  
"Spit it out," Beelzebub moaned, a good hand's breadth deep and lowering steadily.  
  
"What's the story with the, um, toy, then?"  
  
The Prince froze, then began to laugh. "We won it."  
  
"What, like in a contest? Tempter of the month?"  
  
Beelzebub only laughed harder. "No, in a bloody raffle, you idiot! The ones we hold at our quarterly picnics!"  
  
"Oh," Gabriel said, too shocked to be amused at how silly Beelzebub looked as ze squatted over the bench, partly impaled and cackling away. "Was it—was it the grand prize?"  
  
Beelzebub's expression was priceless. "No, oh no. Half of Hell owns at least one of these," ze wheezed. "It's just a cheap clone-a-willy. Hell has _some_ standards. 'Grand prize,' my arse!"  
  
"Oh," Gabriel said again. "Then whose is it?"  
  
Beelzebub smirked and resumed filling zirself with the toy. "The colour alone ought to have been hint enough. It belongs to that twat brother of yours."  
  
Gabriel choked. " _Satan_? Satan raffles off copies of his dong at the _quarterly fucking picnic_? And you _use_ them?"  
  
"Aww, are you jealous?" the Prince jeered. Ze braced zir hands on the bench fore and aft, dropped zirself another two inches, and groaned lavishly. "What's the matter? Don't enjoy watching your nasty brother's pork sword stirring up your lover's slutty pussy?"  
  
Gabriel spluttered. "He's _not_ my—don't call it—you know I'm not—"  
  
"The expression on your face!" Beelzebub howled. "Come on. You've got to admit it's pretty funny."  
  
Gabriel subsided, grumbling. "'Standards,' my ass!" He finally set the soup bowl aside with a clunk to give himself room to fold his arms over his chest.  
  
"No, no sulking allowed," Beelzebub said indulgently. Indulgently; yet ze shot a pointed look at the soup pot all the same. "Here, We know just the thing to cheer you up."  
  
"Setting that toy on fire?" Gabriel said hopefully. He put the pot back in his lap. "Boiling it in acid?"  
  
Beelzebub feigned shock. "What, while it's inside Us? What a positively savage idea. Didn't think you had it in you, fluffhead," ze said, impressed. "Another time, perhaps. We are already on thin enough ice with Chef as it is. No, what We were thinking was—"  
  
Ze waved a hand lazily in the air, working a miracle that caused zir clothing to peel off zir pale body like the petals of a blooming flower. The last garment to fall away was the kilt, and when it did it revealed the Prince's cunt spread wide around the ostentatious girth of the dildo. Only a third of its length was buried inside, yet Gabriel could tell that it was as far in as it would normally go—there was the faintest shadow of a bulge above the Prince's mons.  
  
"Oh," Gabriel groaned. "Oh, fuck, you look good like that, my Prince." Something in the back of his mind questioned whether any of this was anatomically possible, but he stifled the thought immediately. His Prince could do whatever ze wanted to with zir anatomy  
  
Beelzebub shoved downwards and strained against the thick toy, grimacing yet moaning in evident pleasure, until something deep inside zir body gave way and ze plunged another hand's breadth downward. "Ugh," ze moaned, eyes rolling. "Fuck." Ze raised a trembling hand and patted the bulge in zir abdomen with open satisfaction.  
  
Gabriel's mouth moved for several seconds before he finally managed to engage his vocal cords. "Again," he rasped.  
  
"Didn't hear you."  
  
"P-please do that again, your Lowness."  
  
Beelzebub grinned, got zir feet beneath zir, and drove downwards. This time, Gabriel heard the loud gurgling _splorch_ the Prince's anatomy made when it yielded to the relentless intrusion, and this time Beelzebub made a high-pitched noise in the back of zir nose and throat. The bulge was now an oblong outline extending from zir mons to zir navel, and zir abdominal muscles were quivering without rest.  
  
"Again?" ze said, voice like a hacksaw ripping through metal.  
  
Gabriel wished he could touch: the bulging belly, the shivering hands, the parted, panting lips. His own aching prick. But he stayed put and gripped the handles of the soup bowl instead. "Again, please," he begged.  
  
Beelzebub's thighs strained; there was another grotesque wet noise, another half-shriek half-moan. Beelzebub's navel inverted itself.  
  
"Again, again, again," Gabriel moaned. His resolve failed him immediately and he tossed aside the soup bowl again to wrap his fist around his cock.  
  
Beelzebub took the last few inches of the toy emitting raw, guttural noises of pleasure. Then zir sweat-drenched thighs made contact with the edges of the padded bench and ze pitched forward face down, spasming helplessly through another climax.  
  
"Wow," Gabriel croaked, staring at the Prince's heaving back. "Wow." He looked down at himself and found his hand smeared with white. "Wow," he said again.  
  
"Articulate, aren't you? _Fuck_ , that's a tight fit," Beelzebub said into the bench cushion. Ze picked zirself up on one elbow and shot Gabriel a wry look. "You know, that's the first time We've taken the whole thing."  
  
"Well, congratulations," Gabriel said as blandly as he could, which wasn't very. "Let me give my secretary a call and I'll have a commemorative plaque whipped right up."  
  
Beelzebub looked blank for a second and then began to cackle. "You just can't help yourself, can you?"  
  
"I'm sorry, your Lowness," Gabriel said in a tone of voice that indicated he clearly wasn't.  
  
The Prince hauled zirself to zir feet, wobbling just a little as ze dragged zir leg back over the bench. "I suppose We will give you a nice little treat to tide you over until the next course, since you've been such a good boy."  
  
Gabriel was startled. "I have?"  
  
The Prince rolled zir eyes and approached close enough to the edge of the table that Gabriel could have reached out and hugged zir, had he felt like ending the evening early with a discorporation. A sexy discorporation, admittedly; but Chef would no doubt be furious with both of them.  
  
"No, of course not," ze said. "You've been a wholly useless muppet as always. But We are a generous and indulgent sovereign, so We will deign to reward you anyway, no matter how little you deserve it." Ze tilted zir hips towards Gabriel, presenting zir stuffed pussy. "You may pull it out."  
  
"Oh shit," Gabriel breathed. Beelzebub's bulging belly was so close that he could clearly see the contours of the huge dildo lodged inside zir. "Wow."  
  
"Yes, you said that already," Beelzebub jeered. "Get on with it. Chef will not be kept waiting, not even by Us."

Gabriel reached for the ring sticking out of the red disc that was all that was visible of the base of the toy. When his fingertip brushed it, Beelzebub made a sound of pleasure so soft that Gabriel scarcely believed he had heard it. Encouraged, he plucked at the ring gently.  
  
"Ah," Beelzebub moaned. "Stupid Archangel and your stupid hands."  
  
Gabriel smiled to himself and rested his other hand on Beelzebub's side, bracing zir hips further forward until ze rose up on the balls of zir feet and zir eyelids fluttered shut.  
  
"If I may be so bold as to make a suggestion," Gabriel said archly, "my Prince might put zir hands on my shoulders."  
  
Beelzebub cracked one eye open and snorted. "Now he gets in character," ze said. "Halfway through!" Still, ze did brace zirself against his shoulders, albeit not without scuffing him lightly on the head, muttering something about his "bloody impudence."  
  
In lieu of responding, Gabriel hooked his index finger through the ring pull and gave it a twist, provoking a thin and nasal but very aroused shriek from Beelzebub. He could see the muscles of zir abdomen fluttering over the enormous intrusion as it spun around deep inside and, curious and enthralled at the sight, he brushed his palm up the long bulge.  
  
"Ah, that's—" Beelzebub choked; Gabriel jerked away. "No, don't _stop_!"  
  
Gabriel put his hand back and, keeping hold of the ring, tentatively gave the Prince a shove to the solar plexus just above where the head of the dildo showed beneath zir skin. Ze made a sharp, gutted noise and arched over him as a good inch of red reappeared. Gabriel swore under his breath, but Beelzebub was gabbling at him to keep going, don't stop, fucking do it already, so he clenched his fist and yanked again. It came out in fits and jerks, and Beelzebub's throaty yowl rose to a strident pitch with each slurping motion.  
  
The last six inches came free with an obscene gurgle of organs and guts sliding and slopping back into their original positions inside Beelzebub's slim body. Gabriel found himself with a lapful of Satan's horrible door prize, not to mention Satan's horrible heir and first lieutenant, who had zir arms wrapped too tightly around his head, zir collarbone mashed against his nose, and was gasping raggedly into his ear. He smiled again, this time openly, and surreptitiously tucked his arms around the Prince under the pretense of keeping zir from falling off the edge of the table.  
  
Beelzebub clambered off of him, panting. Zir eyes were bright and wild; there was a flush high on zir cheekbones and a fleck of spit on the corner of zir mouth. Gabriel swallowed hard. Ze really did look fantastic like this. And—he glanced down, then had to look away again lest he be caught staring—zir cunt looked sublime: open, swollen, ruddy, and fairly dripping with slick.  
  
Beelzebub didn't miss his look, however. Ze grinned savagely. "Like that, do you?" ze said. "Even though it's mainly the work of your unspeakable sibling?"  
  
At the mention of Satan, Gabriel remembered just what it was he had flopped across his thighs. He shoved it off with distaste, then poked it off the edge of the table with a fingertip. The noise it made as it hit the floor provoked a bark of laughter from the Prince, who bent down with a grunt to retrieve it.  
  
"We suppose you won't be wanting to take this home as a souvenir, then," ze said dryly, weighing the drooping toy in zir hand. It had lost a considerable amount of its stiffness somehow. "Still, We can't help but wonder what _you_ would look like with _your_ slutty hole split open on his custard cannon. We could borrow Dagon's copy and spitroast you while We do Our paperwork using your back for a desk. Or shall We invite himself over so you can experience—and probably smell—the real thing?"  
  
Gabriel made a face and leaned back involuntarily as Beelzebub waved the dildo in his face, prompting zir to laugh again. Ze tossed it onto the bench, flapped zir hand to miracle away the goo—but not the crumbs, oil, or dribbles of soup—and rang the bell to summon the porter demons again.  
  
For the next course, Chef's minions put him face down on the table with his forehead on his folded arms. Then Chef smeared something cold with a tangy aroma in a complicated pattern down his shoulders, back, and thighs. After a while, it began to prickle slightly, but by that point Chef was using a pair of tongs to lay out chopped leaves over his entire back side. The whisker-bird demon scuttled over to order him to lower his body temperature, which he did with some effort. Then, a line of minions brought Chef other things in bowls to arrange artfully (he assumed) atop the leaves.  
  
He was trying not to shiver as the porter demons set him and his salad down in the Prince's dining chamber, which meant he bungled his line ("butter lettuce salad with cranberries, walnuts, and a soy-sesame vinaigrette") again.  
  
The Prince hove into his limited view, fully dressed and perfectly composed once again. Ze had changed into trousers this time—albeit loose ones, a wise choice—and a visibly buttery-soft waistcoat out of whose collar spilled the ruffles of a midnight-blue shirt.  
  
"Sooner or later, you'll get it right," ze said, stooping over to look him in the eye with an expression that verged on tolerant. "If only by accident. 'Letter buttice'? Really?"  
  
"Not gonna lie, I probably w-won't," he admitted ruefully. "Not even by accident."  
  
Then the Prince circled around the table to where he couldn't see without dislodging the salad piled on the back of his head.  
  
He was beginning to ache with the cold, but for whatever reason, the sound of the Prince's fork scraping on the table as ze picked it up sent a storm of tingles running up the backs of his legs, his spine, and over his scalp, and in its wake he felt the tension in his muscles ease. There was another noise as Beelzebub knelt on the table. Then Gabriel felt pressure on one of the mounds of leaves perched on his calf, shortly replaced by the prodding of cold metal as the tines of the fork pierced the morsel and struck his skin. He tried not to flinch.  
  
Beelzebub made short work of the salad, crawling up between Gabriel's legs, wedging them apart, and champing away loudly at the crisp lettuce and nuts. Gabriel went red at the thought of nuts, for his were very much on display, especially once Beelzebub wedged zir bent knees under his thighs to lever up his hips.  
  
"How's the view, your Lowness?" he asked, mouth dry.  
  
"Wrinkly," ze said with a contented thrum, provoking a deeper flush in Gabriel that he could feel all the way down to his chest. So ze _was_ looking at it. "Would you mind terribly if We poked this with Our fork?"  
  
Gabriel came within a hair's-breadth of squirming right out of zir lap—and, for that matter, up the wall. "I'd rather you didn't," he said weakly.  
  
"Oh, you'd _rather_ ," Beelzebub chortled. "Not even a little bit? Not even if We say pretty please?"  
  
Gabriel choked. "Well... I guess... just a little bit?" he squeaked. The fork seemed basically blunt after all. And it wasn't like he couldn't heal himself. It just... took longer.  
  
"Since We asked so nicely?"  
  
Wisely, Gabriel kept his mouth shut and braced himself. There ensued an excruciating pause.  
  
"No, never mind," Beelzebub said finally. "It is too hairy and odd-looking for Our refined and cultivated taste."  
  
Gabriel let his forehead hit the table in front of him with a thunk. Beelzebub cackled, speared another mouthful of salad from his right buttock, swabbed it around in the dressing, and ate it loudly. And just when Gabriel had gotten his pounding heart under control, ze slid a thumb between his buttocks, pressed its slickened pad against his hole, and began to circle it firmly.  
  
"Ooh, you've been looking forward to that, haven't you?" the Prince said. "It's twitching. How cute!"  
  
Gabriel buried his face, no doubt as red as a ruby by now, in his folded arms  
  
"Nothing to be embarrassed about," Beelzebub said in a matter-of-fact tone. "Everyone wants Our cock; even Dagon, although she won't admit it. It's simply ineffable."  
  
Gabriel spluttered again as Beelzebub simultaneously slid zir thumb into him and speared another mouthful of salad with zir fork, this one from his left flank. The Prince's hand was blazing hot on the inner curve of his buttock, a captivating counterpoint to the chill that still pervaded his body. And he could sense the miracle ze was using to wet zir thumb and fingers; it fizzled in his crotch and the pit of his stomach each time ze slid in and out, working him open.  
  
It was more powerful than it strictly needed to be. "Are you doing that on purpose?" he asked. "Your Lowness."  
  
Beelzebub thrummed again, sounding very self-satisfied. "Well, would you rather We went in dry? That can be arranged, you know."  
  
"No, I meant—never mind." There was no winning when the Prince was in this mood—post-orgasmic and patient enough to put off the next however long ze felt like it if it meant leading him around by the nose in verbal circles until he tripped over some objectionable question or implication. It was a game he enjoyed sometimes, but, although his watch was sitting in a rusted-out locker somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchens, he knew that they were already off schedule, and that Chef would know exactly who to blame if the Prince got distracted.  
  
"Ah," Beelzebub said, sounding oddly pleased given that he had declined the engagement. "You aren't as daft as you look after all." Ze thrust zir fingers in with vigor to punctuate the sentence.  
  
Gabriel let out a low breathy groan as the Prince's fingertips dabbled rapidly against his prostate. Ze had been the one who taught him how to manifest one in a hands-on session (literally, since there didn't seem to be any other way) that had left his copy of the Corporation User's Manual unsalvageable. Now he couldn't imagine life without one; and Beelzebub still seemed to know far more about how to play with it than he did.  
  
Abruptly, Beelzebub's fingers slid back out of him, and before he could stop himself he let out a disappointed grunt. Thankfully, the Prince was too busy with another overwrought miracle to notice, and Gabriel heard zir zipper come down, hands free, the noise likely enhanced for his edification. Then, Beelzebub grabbed his hips and tugged him up and back until his hips were completely in zir lap and zir knees were digging into either side of his ribcage.  
  
Gabriel's heart began to pound unnecessarily. His yet-untouched prick was dangling in the air, sometimes brushing against the soft fabric of Beelzebub's trousers but more often not, and he could feel zir body heat against him as ze stooped over his dressing-smeared back—  
  
—to spear another forkful of salad.  
  
"You are too tall," ze complained around a mouthful of lettuce. "How is anyone supposed to reach, let alone a poor tiny fly like Us?" Ze went for another bite before swallowing the first.  
  
Gabriel deflated.  
  
He had just about resigned himself to being sent away untouched for the next course when he felt Beelzebub's left hand creeping down his side. Zir fingertips dragged through the salad dressing, and for a moment Gabriel worried that ze was going to use it as lube—he could tell it would sting like crazy—but then the touch disappeared and he heard, barely audible behind the Prince's chewing, the rustle of clothing being pushed aside.  
  
"Never let it be said," Beelzebub grumbled, "that We are not a considerate and magnanimous ruler."  
  
Then ze spread his buttocks apart and slid zir prick up his crack, dragging its head against his hole with particular firmness. Ze rutted against him for a moment using only the lube that was already there before adding more with yet another miracle that made Gabriel's arousal burn all the hotter. He had long since forgotten to keep his body temperature low, and Beelzebub had to miracle each bite of salad back to its original crispness before downing it. Fortunately, ze didn't seem too put out by this.  
  
"We are going to make a mess on your back," ze rasped. "A bigger mess, that is."  
  
Gabriel only groaned in response. With each long thrust between his buttocks, Beelzebub was shoving his body forward, which meant that his dangling prick received just enough friction and movement to convince him that he _could_ come from it, eventually, as unlikely as it was.  
  
The fork clattered loudly as Beelzebub tossed it aside. Ze seized hold of Gabriel's hips, then slid zir hands down to where his thighs joined his body. Hunched over him and gripping with bruising force, ze thrust a half-dozen times more and then, with a loud, cracking hiss just behind Gabriel's ear, ze spilled hotly on his back just as promised.  
  
Beelzebub extricated zirself from him and shoved him back down flat on the table. This time without bothering to miracle away the non-food part of the mess, ze reached for the bell and rang it. And before the porter demons came to whisk him away, ze stooped over until ze was at eye-level with him—  
  
—and gave him a cheerful wave of zir hand.

Gabriel squirmed uncomfortably nearly the entire way back to the kitchens; his rock-hard prick was trapped between his body and the table, there were hard little crumbs digging into his skin, and it seemed like there was a shift change underway, for the hallways were much more crowded with demons than before. Gabriel could only catch odd glimpses of them and their miscellaneous skin conditions as they passed by, but he had the (perhaps irrational) feeling that they were staring at his food-smeared and now well-oiled, thoroughly-prepared, and very much not-yet-fucked ass. Finally, one of the porter demons hissed at him to quit his wriggling or they'd dump him right off and let him walk back on his own, and Gabriel forced himself to settle down.  
  
By now, he had remembered how many courses were on the menu: to his relief, there was only the meat dish and the dessert left, and he now had a pretty good idea what the meat dish was going to entail for him.  
  
What he didn't anticipate, however, was the prolonged silence that set in after his table was put down in the kitchen once again. He craned his neck to get a look at Chef and her minions, who were standing to his left.  
  
Chef shot him a withering look. "I can't even begin to explain to you how much _that_ is not my problem," she said, pointing a finger in the direction of Gabriel's midsection.  
  
"Huh?" Gabriel said. Then he remembered how Beelzebub had made a point of not cleaning up after zirself. "Oh, that." He flapped a hand clumsily at his back, but the miracle remained elusive, hovering somewhere far overhead as if unwilling to risk the venture into Hell over something so ignoble. "Um."  
  
An unseen minion dropped a dish towel on him. He swabbed himself awkwardly with it, and then surreptitiously attempted to wipe off some of the other matter, but the minion snatched it back before he could make any inroads on the rest of the mess.  
  
Then it was time to be loaded up with another course, and this one was sizzling hot. He could feel the heat radiating off of the skillets as demons scooped out their contents with tongs and laid them onto him. The pan juices that trickled down his sides made him writhe, and being jabbed in the sole of his foot with a pair of tongs, possibly by Chef herself, did not especially help matters.  
  
The whisker-bird demon reappeared at his shoulder, but this time she had a wry smile on her face. "Your line is 'skirt steak marinated in red miso, ginger, and garlic with steamed rice,'" she said. "And Chef has authorized me to authorize you to let zir Lowness know that ze'll be eating porridge for a week after this."  
  
"What?" Gabriel squeaked. He reflexively popped his head up. Or he tried to; for there was a demon piling rice onto it, and Gabriel got a series of painless but annoying smacks with the rice paddle until he huffed and put his head back down. "I can't say that to the Prince! Ze'll crush me like a bug! Literally! You'll have to serve the dessert up on an Archangel-shaped crater! Complete with wing-shaped scorch marks!"  
  
The whisker-bird demon shrugged, clearly amused by his plight and not even in the same galactic neighborhood as "sympathetic." Then Chef herself stooped into Gabriel's view, which was now entirely restricted by the mound of sticky rice being impatiently sculpted onto the back of his head.  
  
"Porridge, for a week," Chef said. "Ze'll know why."  
  
Gabriel sighed. "Yes, Chef," he mumbled at the table.  
  
"And get your body temperature up."  
  
"Yes, Chef."  
  
This time around, Gabriel was sweating profusely by the time the porter demons deposited his table in the Prince's dining chamber. Beelzebub had put on a fresh tailcoat with a brightly-colored ribbon rosette pinned to the front of it, but the most spectacular rosette in the universe couldn't have distracted Gabriel from the obvious evidence of the erection in zir trousers.  
  
"Skirt steak marinated in—" Gabriel sighed, defeated. "Tasty stuff. And there's a whole mountain of rice on my head, as I'm sure you can see for yourself, your Lowness." He paused, braced himself, and rushed out one last sentence in a single breath, cheek mashed against the table and eyes squeezed shut against his inevitably horrible fate. "Also Chef told me to tell you you'll be eating porridge for a week."  
  
For a long, uneasy moment, Beelzebub was silent. Then ze began to cackle quietly. "Worth it," ze said. "Totally worth it."  
  
Gabriel cracked an eye open. "Really?" he said. "Just to tease Chef?"  
  
Beelzebub shrugged. "Chef's porridge isn't exactly what We would call a _punishment_ , any more than you feel particularly chastened by a spanking," ze said. "Of course, don't tell _her_ We said that."  
  
"Oh," Gabriel said. "Okay." He tucked away this bit of information for future use, although he knew that Beelzebub knew that he was doing so. Actually using the information, which was probably bait to begin with, would no doubt be fraught with peril. But that, too, had its own particular appeal.  
  
"Um, anyway," Gabriel said. He could feel the lump of rice beginning to slide down the back of his head, not to mention several of the steaks slipping out of their carefully-chosen positions.  
  
"Right," the Prince concurred, getting to zir feet. "Time for Us to enjoy Our miso-marinated steak, and for you to enjoy your hot beef injection."  
  
Gabriel tried not to cringe so hard as to dislodge the rice entirely.  
  
Beelzebub started at his feet again, eating zir way up his legs until he was spread open on zir lap in the same position as before and periodically making inroads on the mound of rice. Gabriel groaned in relief as the Prince lifted his hips up and took the pressure off his prick, then groaned again as ze began to lick at his buttocks, lapping up the juices and sauce.  
  
"As usual," Beelzebub said between licks, "Chef has crafted—an infernally delicious marinade. We always know—We are in for a treat—when she uses miso. Do you know what miso is?"  
  
"No," Gabriel mumbled.  
  
"Ith fucking thcrumptious is wha' i' is," Beelzebub said, the words comically muffled by a mouthful of meat and rice. "Maybe one day you'll understand. Having partaken of water and wine, you'll succumb to true gluttony."  
  
Gabriel squirmed. It was true that he had relaxed his self-imposed restriction to try wine since the Armageddon project had come to suboptimal fruition. "That slippery slope thing is a fallacy, you know," he observed piously, but the words rang hollow even to him. He was face down ass up, stark naked, and about to have his ass reamed out by the Prince of Hell zirself—it seemed a bit precious to turn up his nose at putting the sauce in his mouth even as it was slathered all over his rear.  
  
"We will not push you, however," Beelzebub said coyly. "For We are as aware as anyone else of the necessity of allowing the sinner to choose the sin of their own free will."  
  
"Ugh," said Gabriel. His heart wasn't in it, however, and in the next moment he could hear and sense Beelzebub unzipping again.  
  
"We trust, of course, that you are still ready for this other sin in the meantime," the Prince said.  
  
"Yes, your Lowness," Gabriel muttered. He could feel his cheeks reddening again; his hips jerked involuntarily in anticipation.  
  
"We cannot hear you _again_ , you mush-mouthed little bureaucrat!"  
  
That was rich, coming from a being who had just last week signed a Paperwork Intensification Order to great fanfare and then sent him, as a souvenir in a box tied with a grosgrain ribbon, the pen ze used to sign it. Still, Gabriel picked up his chin off the table—never mind the fucking rice—cleared his throat, and repeated himself. "Yes, your Lowness!"  
  
Beelzebub thrummed. "Better."  
  
Gabriel felt the Prince bend down over his back. One of zir hands gripped his wrist and the other he could feel brushing against his buttock as ze guided the head of zir prick against him. Then ze pressed inside, steadily but by no means slowly. Gabriel shuddered at first—some time had passed since the Prince had fingered him open—but after a few moments he began to rock backwards into Beelzebub's lap, trying to take more, faster.  
  
"Ah, ah, ah," the Prince chided, digging zir fingernails into his hip. "You have to savour it."  
  
"But Chef—"  
  
"To Heaven with Chef and her blessed schedule," Beelzebub groused. "It's Our banquet, isn't it? We are in charge here, not Chef."  
  
Gabriel couldn't help but smile. "As my Prince says," he concurred, as dryly as he could under the circumstances.  
  
"Hmph," Beelzebub said, punctuating it with a sharp snap of zir hips that made Gabriel gasp as zir prick filled him to the brim. "You just want to get Us in trouble, don't you?"  
  
"Maybe," Gabriel moaned as Beelzebub drew back almost all the way.  
  
"Little shit," ze growled between his shoulder blades. Then ze gripped his hips, spread zir knees further apart to force his legs wider, and began to fuck him in earnest.  
  
Quickly, the Prince found zir rhythm—quite a lively and demanding one, belying zir diminutive size. Zir prick was heavier than flesh had any right to be and hot inside Gabriel's body, and on every third or fourth slick and compelling thrust, ze intentionally cocked zir hips in such a way as to score a direct hit on Gabriel's prostate. Gabriel allowed himself to yield to the stretch and satisfying burn of it; he let his arms go slack at his sides and his body to jerk forward and downward against the surface of the table, even though his neck was beginning to ache.  
  
"You like that, don't you?" Beelzebub said. Above and beyond the breathy rasp of arousal, there was a certain keenness to zir voice. "Taking Our cock like this? Maybe you'd like to transition into a more permanent role as Our concubine? Are you interested in a career change, Archangel Gabriel? Will your new title be 'the Fuckslut Gabriel' or would you prefer 'the Archangel Fuckslut'?"  
  
"My Prince," Gabriel whimpered. His pulse was throbbing in his head and his blood rushing in his ears in a way it simply never did on Earth, let alone in Heaven. "My Prince, please—"  
  
"Please what, Archangel Fuckslut? Harder? Faster? Shall We fuck you right in half? Make Our prick long enough to go all the way through you? We don't suppose you have bothered to put together all of the squidgy bits in the middle"—ze patted his side lovingly, never once faltering in zir relentless pace—"so it probably wouldn't hurt. Much."  
  
"Oh, G—fuck, fuck," Gabriel gurgled, appalled first at the mental image and then at his own near-blasphemy.  
  
"Oh, nice," Beelzebub grunted. "Your arse gets so tight when you're embarrassed. Like when We took your precious angelic virginity, remember that? _So_ tight, so _pure_ , and We were the first to put a stain, Our stain, upon you. Tell Us, have you let anyone else sully you since then?"  
  
" _Beez_!" Gabriel exclaimed.  
  
"Because, you know," ze carried on, " _We_ are not the jealous type. _We_ will happily jerk Ourself silly at the thought of your arse or cunt being ruined by someone—or several someones—else. Those sisters of yours, perhaps? _They_ should know how to annihilate your slutty little holes. _They_ would be able to discipline you properly and fill you up with their sticky come. Is it possible for angels to commit incest? Or does it matter less given that you've no DNA?" With these last questions, Beelzebub sounded almost curious.  
  
But Gabriel was beyond noticing, beyond thinking about the answers, beyond speaking; he thrashed helplessly beneath zir with a high-pitched string of moans, gasps, and whimpers. Then he realized that Beelzebub, his Prince, had buried zir nose in his armpit and was inhaling sharply. And that was it for him: he came with a strangled, almost offended noise and his hips jerked back against Beelzebub spasmodically.  
  
Beelzebub held still and let him fuck himself on zir right through his orgasm, then rose up on zir knees and let out a ferocious buzz before thrusting deeply into him a good dozen times, hard enough to mash his face into the table. Ze came with zir face buried between his shoulder blades.  
  
As Gabriel collected his wits, he could see the last few slices of steak scattered around the head of the table where they had been flung right off of his back and neck in the Prince's frenzy. He glanced back, still shaking, to find Beelzebub slumped over him, breathing raggedly, looking all for the world like a beast hunched over its kill with slavering jaws and wild eyes—a beast, his beast, in a tailcoat and ribbon rosette. The sight sent a shuddering aftershock of pleasure to his groin, and he forced himself to look away.  
  
The Prince stumbled clumsily to zir feet, tugged zir clothing back into the barest semblance of order, then fixed him with a frosty glare as if daring him to notice the fact that zir knees were wobbling. He was too dazed himself to say anything, however.  
  
The bell rang, the porter demons filed back in, and Gabriel let himself be carried out, limp and boneless on his table.  
  
There was one last course to go.

The next ten minutes passed in a daze, so much so that Gabriel could only guess that it was ten minutes and not five or fifteen or an hour. He allowed himself to be wrestled into a seated position with his knees bent to his chest, even though his ass was incredibly sore and he had to subtly prop himself up on his hands to keep his weight off of it. The kitchen demons leaned his back up against some kind of legless chair that was apparently held in place by his own weight, and that certainly didn't help. Then they swabbed down the table to either side of him—he was now facing the long side of it—and a different coterie of demons swarmed around laying out dozens of baked goods, ranging from sugar-dusted to rich near-black, on the clean table. To his surprise, none of them went on him—but it stood to reason, even based on his limited understanding of food, that sweet things wouldn't go well with the salty mingle of residues that coated his skin.  
  
Directly across from him, there was a sign on the wall with a large icon of disembodied wings with a big red X through it. Across the top, in equally heavy red letters, it read: **NO FLAPPING**.  
  
He was still hazily pondering the purpose of this sign—did demons really flap their wings in the kitchens often enough to need to be told not to?—when the porters ducked the table down to fit his head through the doorway to the Prince's chambers. The fact that the game was almost over made Gabriel feel bold, and he held Beelzebub's gaze from the moment he caught it until the demons had shuffled out and the door clicked shut behind them.  
  
He only realized he was grinning when Beelzebub's eyebrows flicked upwards questioningly, then knit together in imperious disdain.  
  
"What are _you_ smiling ab—" ze began.  
  
"Assorted cream puffs, hand pies, brownies, and a glazed donut," Gabriel announced confidently, then gulped as he realized he had interrupted.  
  
Beelzebub's jaw dropped slightly, but ze collected zirself almost immediately. Zir silvery eyes narrowed, and ze turned away to set zir wine glass down on the armrest of zir chair. When ze turned back, the expression on zir face had mutated into a savagely manic grin-slash-grimace that made the hairs on Gabriel's neck stand on end.  
  
He recoiled involuntarily; all of the mistakes he had made so far seemed forgivable, if not necessarily forgiven, but not this. The look on the Prince's face ignited a potent mix of terror and lust inside of him. It riveted him in place even as Beelzebub stalked toward him. Zir eyes were like chips dug off of the bottom of an iceberg, and Gabriel, his vision narrowing into a tunnel focused only on the Prince's blistered, twisted face, shuddered as those little shards of ice drew closer.  
  
He whimpered embarrassingly, but later he would be relieved to realize that the noise was lost amidst the harsh and deepening drone of the flies.  
  
"And why," Beelzebub said in a brutal, sing-song half-whisper, "shouldn't We cram you into a very small parcel and ship you home by discount freight with a layover of unspecified length in Epsilon Eridani? Hmm?"  
  
Gabriel choked on his own spit and spluttered hopelessly.  
  
"Answer Us, you rude little crumb," Beelzebub said flatly.  
  
"Buh-because," Gabriel said, "you w-wouldn't get to—to—to eat your glazed donut?" Towards the end of the sentence his vocal cords called it quits altogether; the word "donut" was barely audible.  
  
To his astonishment, Beelzebub came to a halt, inches away from his face, and zir terrifying expression eased considerably.  
  
"You make," ze said in a tone that approached normal, "a very reasonable point." Then ze turned on zir heel and walked back to the chair to retrieve the wine glass.  
  
Gabriel squeaked like a deflating balloon.  
  
"Still, We could eat Our glazed donut and _then_ stuff you into a box," Beelzebub observed, in much the same tone as ze would have used to discuss the scheduling of the annual joint conference. Ze went so far as to gesture as if weighing the options one in each hand. "But no, We are already past Our bedtime and, at any rate, the post office is probably closed." Ze glanced at Gabriel and winked. "Lucky you."  
  
"P-post office," Gabriel echoed stupidly. "Bedtime."  
  
"On the other hand, featherhead," Beelzebub observed, aiming a finger squarely between Gabriel's legs, " _that_ doesn't really look like a glazed donut to _Us_. More of an éclair, don't you think?"  
  
Reflexively, Gabriel looked down at his crotch. The intense burst of fear had taken his dick from half-mast to iron-hard in a matter of moments, and it was now resting flushed against his inclined thigh. Glancing next at the items arrayed to either side of him, he racked his brains for whatever scraps of knowledge about desserts might have happened to sink in since he had started up this, this _thing_ with the Prince. He knew donuts had holes, but there wasn't anything with a hole in it on the table either. "I guess?" he ventured meekly, hoping the hole in question wasn't going to end up being his ass again. "Your Lowness."  
  
Again, the Prince approached him, shaking zir head languidly. Gabriel tensed as ze lifted a hand and reached for him, but all ze did was rest it on his knee and lean in between his legs, a mocking grin on zir face.  
  
"No, We know what's going on here," ze murmured softly. "Chef has done us a favour by leaving the best part"—ze lifted the hand—"to Us."  
  
The Prince's slim hand seemed to move in slow motion. Gabriel could see the light glinting off of zir fingernails; the fine hairs on the back of zir wrist; the vague bluish lines of zir veins. There was even a plum-colored smudge where Beelzebub had wiped wine from zir lips—napkins were a bridge too polite for a Prince of Hell, of course. Ze took the tip of his prick delicately between index finger and thumb and began to pinch and press downwards.  
  
Gabriel heaved in an enormous lungful of air as Beelzebub's infernal miracle surged and crackled across his nerve endings. He watched, entranced, as both the physical and metaphysical substance of his prick bulged and split and transformed under the Prince's delicate fingers. Then he glanced up and saw that the Prince was equally mesmerized, not by zir own handiwork but by his face.  
  
He realized that he was moaning shamelessly.  
  
Then the miracle began to ebb away. Gabriel let out the air in his chest and sagged backwards against the seatback.  
  
"God," he croaked, now entirely beyond worrying about taking the boss' name in vain. "That never gets old. It's like—it's kind of like—" He trailed off, not quite able to make the connection; for Beelzebub's miracles on him felt not unlike the lightning that was his own preferred mode of travel, and admitting to that to himself, let alone aloud, was—he shook his head. "It's fucking fantastic is what it is."  
  
A knowing—and delighted—grin flicked across Beelzebub's face but, to Gabriel's relief, ze declined to engage with the complicated feelings ze had obviously sensed in him. Sometimes it was such a pain to be involved with someone literally designed to detect such things. "Anyway," ze drawled, " _now_ there is a glazed donut for Us to enjoy."  
  
Gabriel looked at his crotch. Beelzebub had transformed his penis into a plump pussy which, by zir design or due to his own enthusiasm, glinted with slick. Donut, glaze.  
  
"Oh," he said weakly. "Is that what that meant?"  
  
Beelzebub snickered, but not unkindly.

Gabriel sighed. "I suppose 'glazed donut' isn't nearly as objectionable as some of those other terms," he said.  
  
Beelzebub dragged zir chair closer to the table and sat down, then scooted right up to the edge. The legs, naturally, made a horrible grinding sound on the flagstone floor of the chamber.  
  
"Unfortunately," the Prince agreed. "But We can't exactly have a tuna taco, beef curtains, or a fur burger for dessert, now can We?"  
  
Gabriel squeezed his eyes shut and hung his head in abject despair. He almost blurted out, "A _what_ burger?" but stopped himself just in time. There was absolutely no need for the Prince to repeat zirself, let alone elaborate or explain—or trot out any more appalling phrases that would burrow into his brainstem and come wandering out to mark their territory in his thoughts during boring staff meetings. He said feebly, "You make a reasonable point, your Lowness."  
  
Beelzebub leaned in close between Gabriel's shins. "Yes," ze said mellowly. "We are nothing if not reasonable."  
  
As the Prince's head dipped downwards, Gabriel caught a glimpse of zir purple-stained tongue wagging out, a flashbulb memory that would also likely impinge upon his consciousness at awkward moments. Then Beelzebub licked him, first up the inside of one of his outer labia—he squashed ferociously any thoughts of _beef curtains_ —and then up the inside of the other.  
  
Beelzebub's arms encircled him and ze scooted his buttocks forward to get a better angle, wedging his legs a little further apart to give zirself unobstructed access to his pussy and securing him in this position with occult strength. Then Beelzebub inhaled loudly, giving Gabriel's parted folds a lavish sniff, and then let out a satisfied sigh against his groin. The noise and the feel of moving air against his sticky, sweaty skin made Gabriel's hips jerk reflexively, but it amounted to no more than a muscle spasm so firmly was he pinned.  
  
"Luscious," Beelzebub hissed. "Should turn you over to the laboratory and see if they can recreate whatever it is that makes your pretty little pussy smell like this. They usually deal in stenches and miasmas, but We're sure they can suss this one out."  
  
Gabriel stifled an unseemly noise and, moments later, failed to stifle a second: the first at the thought of being probed and sampled from and experimented on by Hell's laboratory while the Prince looked on—wearing a lab coat and goggles, of course—and the second as the Prince's tongue slipped wetly through his crease again. It forked and slithered unnaturally around and over his clit and then dipped lower, circling his entrance with tantalizing delicacy.  
  
Beelzebub's head turned to one side, and Gabriel realized he had lifted and moved his hands unconsciously. Another image seared itself into the back of Gabriel's eyeballs as the Prince peered up at him through zir eyelashes, surely enhanced for just this occasion, with a darkly lustful glance.  
  
"We will deign to allow you to put your unworthy hands on Our shoulders," ze said imperiously. The intended effect was somewhat ruined by the undignified amount of slick— _donut glaze_ , Gabriel's subconscious reminded unhelpfully—all down zir chin. "You may even put your ignoble feet upon Us, should you feel the need to brace yourself against the potency of Our indecent attentions."  
  
Gabriel snorted, but he did rest his hands on the Prince's shoulders, which were thin and bony beneath the pinstriped wool of zir tailcoat. Then, because it wasn't like he could see anything interesting around the Prince's head or the giant fly that adorned it even now, he shut his eyes.  
  
Eating food was Beelzebub's all-time favorite activity and nothing would ever dethrone it. But eating pussy was a very strong runner-up and, apparently, there was a lot of overlap in the skills related to each of these activities. So the Prince was also quite good and, more to the point, apart from one or two favored tricks, ze managed somehow to never repeat a performance. Gabriel had never imagined there were so many distinctly different things one could do to a fur burger—a _cunt_ with a tongue, even a demon tongue, and even several years in he couldn't quite keep up.  
  
And somehow, even with his eyes closed, Gabriel could tell the Prince was smirking against his tender flesh even as ze teased it to new heights of fizzling, crackling, electrifying pleasure. The self-satisfaction all but rolled off of zir.  
  
"S-stop that," he mumbled, knowing it would be useless.  
  
"Stop what?" Beelzebub said innocently, punctuating the question with an overly-loud slurp against his hole.  
  
"You smug jerk," Gabriel panted, but without rancor. "You're _such_ a jerk, your Lowness." Then he gasped out a quick litany of obscenities, his eyes flickering open again briefly as Beelzebub's tongue thrust so deep inside him that he could feel it behind his navel, and said no more.  
  
The Prince brought him to orgasm twice, in no hurry but with ruthless efficiency, and seemed about to go for a third—Christ, he was beginning to ache, but he could cope with it for one more—when instead ze sat back in the chair and sighed a sigh of profound satiety. Gabriel unbent his spine with some effort, leaned back against his own seat, and crossed his legs, sitting up just in time to see Beelzebub fail to stifle a jaw-cracking yawn.  
  
"Aw," he said cheekily once he had caught his breath, "Is my Prince all tuckered out? You weren't joking about that bedtime, were you?" The effect was somewhat ruined, however, by his own irrepressible yawn a moment later.  
  
"Ha!" Beelzebub said, jabbing a finger at him. "Got you, you great big blot."  
  
"I always forget about that stupid 'feature,'" Gabriel groused. "What's the point?"  
  
Beelzebub rolled zir head from side to side, working the kinks out of zir neck. "Yet another of Her little jokes." Ze yawned again. "Anyway, aren't you forgetting something?"  
  
Gabriel grinned. He knew what ze was fishing for, but instead he said, "Aren't you?" The baked goods to either side of him remained untouched.  
  
Beelzebub squinted dubiously at him for a moment before letting the infraction slide. It didn't really matter either way. Later on, the Prince would punish him or not punish him according to zir own whims; there was no detailed ledger of offense versus sanction. Not here, not now.  
  
The swarm thrummed drowsily and Beelzebub stood up, climbed onto the table, and deposited zirself in Gabriel's lap. The Prince didn't weigh much, but certainly enough that he couldn't stop himself from grunting in pain as zir weight settled on him and his sore, abused ass. Still, he was gratified to see Beelzebub noticeably wincing zirself. He wrapped one arm around zir back and used his other hand to surreptitiously take their weight.  
  
"Would you like me to—?" he began.  
  
"Sit," ze said. "Stay. And shush."  
  
He could do that. He could definitely do that. So he did. The Prince gobbled down the rest of zir dessert with astonishing speed, given how much ze had already put away. Periodically, ze paused to wipe zir sticky hands on his chest or brush crumbs or powdered sugar onto his thighs. But his favorite part had to be when ze smeared zir cream-covered mouth all down his jawline, nipping as ze went. The cream smelled like something out of a perfume and was still chilled even after being on the Prince's lips.  
  
"Vanilla," Beelzebub said, licking his neck and then zir own fingers. "We think you'd like it."  
  
"Mmm," Gabriel said.

Ordinarily, having a lapful of fully-clothed yet wriggling Prince would not have failed to work Gabriel up, but now he found himself near to dozing off. Here in Hell, he didn't have nearly as much stamina as he did on Earth, let alone in Heaven, and something about the Prince's chambers seemed calculated to point its occupants towards sloth—after the capacity for every other sin had been exhausted, of course.  
  
Beelzebub polished off the last of the pastries and made a show of sucking the tips of zir fingers clean. Then ze squirmed over onto zir front so that zir waist was bent over his lap and zir arse, too-conveniently framed by the draped tails of zir coat, was front and center under his gaze.  
  
"Can We tempt you?" ze said wickedly.  
  
"You're bluffing," Gabriel sniffed. "You're no more ready for another round than I am."  
  
The Prince chortled, already slithering off of him. Perhaps because ze was feeling especially pleased with his performance or perhaps because ze didn't want to ruin zir own job well done, ze did not choose to knee him anywhere sensitive as ze went. As soon as ze was upright, Gabriel let his legs fall shut. He left the cunt as it was, however—he'd enjoy the lingering sensation as long as it lasted.  
  
Beelzebub vanished into another room. Shortly, a bottle studded with little gold spikes appeared miraculously beside Gabriel. It looked all for the world like a vodka bottle, but the crystal-encrusted label read "bling h2o" with the smaller caption "Limited Edition Spring Water" beneath it. Gabriel uncapped it suspiciously and sniffed at its mouth.  
  
Then he heard the shower begin to run. For a moment, he was indignant. Did Beelzebub intend for him to sit here naked and sticky drinking bling water—for it was water, nothing but water, and deliciously cold, whatever "bling" meant—while ze took one of zir never-ending showers? But just a few minutes later, the shower shut off and Gabriel realized he was being teased, again. Or still.  
  
When the Prince reappeared, ze had a towel wound around zir head and was dressed in green satin pajamas with an all-over print of a googly-eyed little brown object that Gabriel dimly recognized from somewhere else.  
  
"Well, featherhead?" ze said pointedly.  
  
"Thank you, Prince Beelzebub," Gabriel simpered dutifully.  
  
The Prince shook zir head in mock-exasperation. "You old snotgoblin. Give me some of that water."  
  
Gabriel let the bottle be snatched out of his hand, smiling beatifically. "You know," he observed, "drinking from the same bottle is sometimes regarded as—"  
  
"Yes, yes, I know. An indirect kiss," Beelzebub groused. "You've only told me about a dozen times. It's so twee I could honestly vomit." But ze drank anyway, deeply, and made yet another sated noise before handing back the bottle.  
  
At the ring of the bell, Gabriel expected to be packed off back to the kitchens, but instead of the porters, it was Dagon and the whisker-bird demon who entered the chamber. Gabriel tried to cross his legs in such a way as to conceal his flushed and swollen parts from Dagon's fishy eye, but judging by the look on her face, he failed.  
  
"Some last things to sign off on for the day, boss," Dagon said breezily, offering a stack of clipboards to Beelzebub. "The top two are petitions from the Special Duty Volunteers Committee and are requested ASAP. The one on the bottom is Chef's feedback survey. She doesn't need it until next week." She turned to Gabriel and thrust a clipboard and pen into his hands as well. "Just need your signature on that one."  
  
Reflexively, Gabriel scribbled his name and handed the clipboard back. "Wait, what?" he said a moment later. "What was that?"  
  
Beelzebub put on a shocked expression. "Who signs things without reading them, honestly?" ze marveled, signing zir own last three forms without so much as glancing at them.

"Seriously, though—" Gabriel said, but Dagon was already heading for the exit. He sighed.  
  
The whisker-bird demon stepped forward. She had Gabriel's clothing in her hands, neatly folded as he had left it, and not a single pink or green wad in evidence. He reached out to take the stack and was entirely unsurprised when she dropped it carefully between his hands and into a heap on the floor.  
  
"Thank you," he said cheerfully and with the smile he usually reserved for receiving VIPs, and got a gratifying look of confused disgust in return before she, too, fled the chamber.  
  
"You shouldn't tease them like that," Beelzebub said, amused.  
  
"I've gotta get my jollies in somehow," he said unrepentantly, to which the Prince only snorted. "So, uh..." he trailed off. "What was that about a Volunteers Committee?" Even angels these days usually weren't so tragically naïve as to _volunteer_ for anything, never mind demons.  
  
Beelzebub made an odd face. "Why, as for that," ze said, "I'm not sure you want to know."  
  
Gabriel rolled his eyes. "Really? Come on, Beez."  
  
"Well, I couldn't exactly order the kitchen staff to participate in... _this_ ," Beelzebub said, gesturing vaguely but expansively.  
  
Gabriel was relatively certain that Beelzebub could _order_ the kitchen staff to do whatever ze wanted them to do. "Wait, you mean—" He made an equally vague gesture. " _This_? This-this?"  
  
Beelzebub nodded, looking uncharacteristically evasive. " _This_ -this. But when I called for volunteers, well—let's just say, we had to set up a wait-list."  
  
Gabriel opened his mouth and closed it again. "A wait-list. Of volunteers. Which you made an open call for."  
  
The Prince nodded.  
  
"For this."  
  
The Prince nodded again, but more to the point was resisting a grin seemingly at the cost of great facial strain.  
  
"And they have a committee."  
  
The Prince's polar-blue eyes now appeared to be watering with the effort required to keep zir mouth in its increasingly untenable position. "Said Committee," ze said tightly, "would like to know what your schedule looks like for—"  
  
Gabriel dropped his face into his palms.  
  
The original plan had been for Gabriel to put on a show of getting dressed, but in light of the scheduling delays and other logistical issues, Beelzebub let him put his clothes on normally and, though ze of course watched, ze didn't make any cat-calls, offer any cheeky suggestions, commentate on his boxer-briefs, or otherwise interrupt him. Ze did additionally permit him to use zir private elevator ("TRESPASSERS WILL BE PERSECUTED") and, as the doors slid shut between them, ze allowed zirself a full-on grin and waved him goodbye.


End file.
